I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. I pray you, Gérard, do not fail me. His brute strength surged through her veins, she could feel his energy in her heart, his life force stolen like candy from a baby. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself.
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